


prickly thorn, sweetly worn

by murgamurg



Category: South Park
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past Stendy, Stick of Truth AU, also background creek, but serious i guess, with some political intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 05:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14909492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murgamurg/pseuds/murgamurg
Summary: stan accepts a mission for his homeland.then, he forgets to complete it.





	prickly thorn, sweetly worn

**Author's Note:**

> been reading sot fics and wasnt satisfied so i wrote this in 12h and its basically a fever dream. no take backsies
> 
> they're all like around 30+ yrs old
> 
> tw for suicidal ideation

_614, South-eastern Zaron. Formerly (and still to some) called tua dán._ _  
_

 

The throne room is full to the brim with subjects; sycophants and political rivals all vying for the King’s favor during his audience hours. Stan stands a few inches taller than them all. He sticks out like a sore thumb, all clumsy and dark hair and swarthy skin, where the elves are almost ethereal in their beauty and grace. More than one pair of eyes follow him, and the elvish squad that is his escort.

His human armor clanks loudly as he tromps into the room, boots heavy for long marches and pauldrons thick for blows from thicker broadswords.The elves beside him -- dressed in leather, for light combat and stealth -- don’t make a sound.  
  
The throne room is vast. The biggest hall in the palace by far, and at the center of it all sits the the High King himself.  
  
He is languid with power. Elaborate dress curls around his ankles and wrists; up behind his skull, framing it like a halo in the same ostentatious, ornate nature of the hall itself. He’s aged since Stan last knew him. His face is more angular, reddish-brown stubble peppers his chin. No wisp of hair escapes his elaborate crown of thistle and yew. Like a doll cut from paper, fragile, all facade. Eyes that used to be gold are now a dull amber, empty as they fall upon him. _  
_ _  
_ “Marshwalker,” He snaps. At least that hasn’t changed.  
  
Stan kneels. “My lord,” He responds, helmet tucked under his right arm. There’s a moment of silence as he keeps his head bowed. He almost expects to be hung by the evening.    
  
The king’s voice is cutting, direct. “Cut that shit out. Stand up, let me see you.”  
  
Stan lifts his head and stands, as he was commanded. The king moves off his throne, long limbs draped in layers and layers of fine silks. The way he moves is flawless.  
  
He tries to stand still as the king looks him over, paces around him slowly. His escort moves out of the way one by one as the king makes his way around. Finally, the king stops where he started. They almost see eye to eye.  
  
“You look like shit,” The king grimaces. It contorts the freckles on his left cheek. “What do the humans feed you these days? Blood of the innocent?”  
  
Stan, despite his best effort, smirks. “You’re one to talk, my lord.”  
  
The guard to his left bristles. The guard to his right takes out the back of his knees. Stan’s on the ground with an elvish kneecap pressing brutally into his spine before he can spare a breath. The blade of a polearm presses into the side of his neck.  
  
The king huffs in annoyance. His feet shift in a circle in front of Stan’s face as he spits curses in elvish, sharpened like a knife. Stan can only tell because he recognizes a few of the words the king taught him as a child.  
  
The guard on Stan’s back protests, briefly -- and then releases her hold, and her polearm.  
  
“Stand up,” The king commands, in the common tongue this time.  
  
So he does, brushing himself off, straightening his left pauldron. Taking his time. Those amber eyes are burning when he finally meets them. “You talk to me like that again and you’ll be fed to the fucking _hamadrys_ . It takes eight _centuries_ for you to lose consciousness, you got that?”    
  
Stan resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

“Take him to his quarters,” he commands again, and the guards shove him roughly towards the exit. “We’ll talk later,” He mutters; an afterthought.  
  
He turns back to his throne as Stan is led out. Doesn’t spare another glance.  
  
Not a bad start, he thinks. Given the way he and Kyle parted, all those years ago.

 

* * *

 

  
_614\. Northwestern Zaron._

  
  
A fat man sighs as he pushes open the doors to his chambers. His brow is coated in sweat with stress. His violet robes cinch his waist too-tightly, and soon he’ll have to find his chamber pot.  
  
He removes his hat and staff, finds a basin to wipe his face.  
  
A shadow melts from the shadows of the stone walls. When his face rises, a figure looms over him in the mirror.  
  
“Holy shit!” He startles backwards with a shout, almost knocks over the basin and barely manages to set it right without sloshing the whole thing on the floor. A meaty hand clutches the fabric over his chest and he heaves a heavy breath, and then a heavy laugh.  
  
“Feldspar! Jesus christ man you scared the shit out of me. No like literally, I think I’m going to need you to call the chambermaid--”  
  
“Grand Wizard,” Though muffled from his mask, the shadow’s tone brokers no humor. He extracts a small rolled parchment from his breastplate, extends it to the wizard. “From the expedition.”  
  
The wizard lights up, forgetting his previous concern. Brows raising to the top of his round forehead, hands brushing through his high hairline. He grabs the parchment, tears open the wax seal. Ignores the disdainful glare from Feldspar as he quickly scans the contents.  
  
He looks up at the thief, a good head taller and twice as handsome. A wild grin splits the wizard’s face.

“He’s in.”

 

* * *

 

  
_614._   _tua dán._

  
  
Stan sits on the sill of his open window. The elvish lands stretch out before him, wide and open. Though he’s been restricted to his room for the past day and a half, he can’t deny the natural beauty of this place.  
  
Just as he’s finishing the last apple from his breakfast platter, a sharp knock on his door.

Two guards push their way in and he stands. He’s only in breeches. They don’t seem to mind.  
  
The left one says, in stilted common: “ _Eō_ _dagda_ requests your presence. No weapons.”  
  
“Uh, let me get dressed first? But sure,” he says. They watch him don his tunic, belt, and boots from the day before.    
  
He’s led through the palace in a direction he forgets as soon as they walk it. Though he has memories of these halls as a child, they serve no other purpose than fond affection. Yawning gaps of time have changed the palace as well as himself.  
  
They exit the building to a bright morning and lush vegetation. The palace lands are perfectly manicured and excellently landscaped. Vibrant greens serve as a backdrop to splashes of orange and crimson and violet, the ivory blots of wild baby’s breath teased throughout. They pass druids beginning their day with meditation, or just starting their chants -- the runes on their dusky robes glow a dull amber, and Stan finds that he can’t quite keep them in focus.  
  
The garden is a maze and Stan can keep no better track than in the palace, but all too soon, the path becomes familiar. The groves to either side grow taller, the long path less kept, little more than a trail rut through the undergrowth. The guards become more tense with each step.  
  
Finally, it opens up into a wide clearing, the trees so tall they seem to bow forwards over the space, blocking most of the sunlight with their malicious canopy. Branches reach forward like begging arms, always needful, always hungry.

In the center stands a singular figure in a gold trimmed robe.

 _The fucking hamadrys,_ Stan thinks, as they come to a halt in front of the King.

The pompous ass opens his arms, bows a little in thanks to his guards. They step aside as the King steps forward, eyes on Stan.  
  
“Welcome to my grove, Marshwalker,” He motions to the trees that seem to hiss at his gesture. “Quite nice, isn’t it?”  
  
Stan’s trying to stave off a cold sweat. “You’ve made your point, my lord.”  
  
Kyle smirks. His teeth are sharp with age, his eyes hard as stone.  
  
“ _Gadaelmân_ ,” He waves off the guards and they retreat to the entrance of the path.  
  
He steps forward towards Stan. The hairs raise on the back of Stan’s neck but he’s too slow-- the King’s hand grabs his tunic in a death grip and wrenches him forward. Immediately he reels back in disgust but Kyle is _strong_ , and drags him bodily to the pit at the edge of the clearing. Stan’s heels leave deep trenches in the grass behind him. The top half of his body hangs over the abyss, supported only by the king’s arm.  
  
“ _Kyle_ \-- please, I--” He claws at the grip more in desperation than trying to get it to release. Below him lie skeletons of the king’s enemies past and present. Some of them alive, lost to the agony, forever in hell.  
  
“Don’t call me that!” The elf king spits, venom in his words. “Why are you _here_ ,” he demands, shaking his victim. Stan’s feet scramble for a solid footing.     
  
“Uh!” He’s struggling through the stress. “W-what?”  
  
“Why are you _here_ ?! Why did you take the summons? Why did the Grand Wizard send _you_ , of all people!”  
  
“What!” Stan clutches the elf king’s wrist, meets those amber eyes with all his strength and fear. “Are you _serious_ right now? Kyle--”  
  
“ _Don’t call me that!_ ”  
  
“-- I fucking _asked_ to come! I heard the Grand Wizard talking,” He licks his lips, takes a deep breath. Drops his voice low. The lie rolls off his tongue so easily, it scares him. “I heard the Grand wizard talking and asked to come here. I asked to… to see you.”  
  
The king is frozen. Stan knows right away that Kyle believes every word he’s said, and he hates himself for it.  
  
His face meets the cool grass as the king slings him aside. He coughs a little, lets himself shake from the adrenaline as he inhales and exhales. In a million years, Stan would have never thought Kyle might kill him with his own hands.  
  
The king strides past his prone form, boots creasing the grass. “Well, you got your wish,” he spits, continuing right on past the guards and straight into the garden.  
  
The guards move forward and haul Stan back to his feet. He’s still trying to process what just happened.  
  
“Back to your room,” One of them prods him in the back. He starts walking, one foot in front of the other.

 

* * *

 

 

For days, Stan is confined to his quarters. The guards give him direct commands to “stay here, or else” which Stan only finds intimidating because he knows Kyle might get involved.  
  
It’s not like he’s treated poorly: he receives all the food he could want, all the baths and fine linens and ornate oils and expensive treats and _ale_ he could ever ask for. His window isn’t sealed shut and he spends quite a lot of time seated on the sill. It’s not like he could go anywhere anyway; the drop is a sheer one, the next terrace maybe two or three hundred feet below, and the canopy of trees even further down.

 He’s content with waiting.

 

 _“You can’t rush this,” the Grand Wizard presses him_ . _Stan’s already tired of the smell of 10-day-old lard, and the wizard’s only been in his quarters for ten minutes. “You gotta get on his good side, make him believe you.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _He sighs and continues to fill his pack. “I know Cartman. Can you just let me do it, dude?”_    
  
“ _Sure sure. Remember the plan, Stan._ ” _He says, and claps Stan on the back. Stan thinks he could go the rest of his life without seeing that disgusting grin again._ _  
  
_

* * *

 

Stan is a patient man. He can wait out a quarry on a hunt for weeks before it shows itself, spend ages canvassing every broken branch and piece of scat. But this is an entirely different situation. Kyle is no quarry, and this room is no hunting theatre.

But a month? A solid _month_ of being confined to thirty square feet, even with all the luxuries in the world could drive anyone crazy. _Maybe not the wizard_ , he grimaces, not sure if the wizard has moved more than thirty feet in his lifetime. But that’s a special case.  
  
He checks the parchment with tallies once more, to make sure it really is a month. They haven’t allowed him outside correspondence but they allowed him the utensils to write and that has been more than enough. The walls are scattered with drawings of animals he remembers from his hunts, and even one of his trusted partner, Sparky. It’s a new skill; he’s poor at it, but improving.  
  
He eats his supper on the sill as the sun sets. The cool air tells of the approaching winter, and he bristles at the thought. Kyle has pushed this from stubborn denial right into outright ignorance of his presence. He needs to rectify this situation. He’s not really sure how, yet. What’s the worst that could happen?

 _The hamadrys_ , he reminds himself, but he chooses to ignore that possibility.  
  
Nightfall comes and goes. He waits for the witching hour, that time of night where the moon is bright as the sun and the shadows are darker than soot. He’s no Feldspar, but he can _try_ to be quiet, even if his full gear makes noise at rest.  
  
The element of surprise works to his advantage when he takes out the guards at his door. It’s quick and mostly quiet, and very encouraging. He leaves the unconscious bodies under the bed in his quarters.  
  
Then, he steals out into the hall. Candles line the walls in a sparse pattern, casting their soft light against the relief of the boughs and floors. Small voices echo from further down the chamber -- a conversation in soft voices, maybe -- and he presses himself against the wall to think.  
  
Where would Kyle be? Stan could probably make his way to the throne room but there’s no way a king would hold court at this hour. His quarters, maybe?  
  
The voices recede and he decides to move on.  
  
The hallways twist, and turn, and twist again. The memories he’d passed off when he arrived seem more vital now, but no less helpful. He can’t be arsed to remember where the hell the king’s quarters are, and he’s not even sure what he’s going to do once he gets there. Between himself and any possible aggressors he keeps a wide berth. Always he stops near doors or alcoves, some means of escape from the light-footed and ever wary elven patrols.  
  
The night begins to wear on him. He’s been wandering for what feels like hours, and with no progress or knowledge of where he is. He has half a heart to find the nearest guard to just, lead him back to his room. He could do with a good night’s sleep by now.  
  
A snicker from around the corner takes him by surprise and he forgets his thought. A creak of a footstep and he dives for the nearest door.  
  
He slams it just a _bit too loud_ behind him.  
  
Questions in elvish erupt from the other side of the door. He’s in a library, or something-- he hustles behind a tall bookcase and opens the cabinet behind it, only to find that it’s full of books. _Shit._  
  
The doors to the library creak open, and he creeps away from the source of the speech. “ _Dagda, eiu dagda. Mae popeth yn iawn?_ ”  
  
_Dagda_ . Stan’s brain clicks; he knows that word. He manages to stifle the _motherfucker_ that’s about to roll off his tongue.  
  
Sharp elvish bites back in response from the far end of the chamber. Stan imagines him saying “shut the door, you idiots, I’m fine” like the total jerk he is these days.  
  
The guards mumble what sounds like an apology, and the door clicks shut behind them.  
  
Stan waits for a moment. Then, he creeps towards where he thinks the king is sitting. Pacing his steps, listening for any adverse movement. Trying not to breathe.  
  
He peers through the last shelf at the edge of the chamber and --  
  
He’s just, well. Sitting at a large desk, book splayed out in front of him. Without his crown or his robe he looks both smaller and older. The violent red mess of hair has been tamed against his head in an elaborate braid that ends at the base of his neck, the sides of his head shaved. His elvish ears are more prominent this way, and maybe that’s intentional. It’s so much more severe than the softness he used to have and well. Stan’s a little sad about it. He liked Kyle’s hair, maybe.    
  
“You’re the loudest fucking spy I’ve ever met, Marshwalker.” Kyle bites, without looking up.  
  
Stan grimaces. So he hadn’t been quiet at all.  
  
“Uh, hey.” He steps out from behind the shelves. “I, um. Got bored?”  
  
The king’s eyes pin him down. “Nice try. Have a seat,” He gestures to the open chair at the other end of the desk.  
  
Stan sees no reason not to sit, so he sits.

Kyle finds a place in his text and scribbles something into the notebook splayed across the opposite page. It’s all in elvish and Stan shifts uncomfortably.  
  
“Uh, so. What are you reading?”  
  
“How to interrogate you without causing death,” He snaps back.  
  
Stan blinks. Kyle looks up at him, and snorts.  
  
“Just kidding. These are the historical references.” A long finger taps on the page. “ _This_ is a portion of the last treaty we ever made with the _valkyrja_ .”  
  
It’s the biggest lie Stan’s ever heard. “Bullshit. You’re telling me the _dánnan_ had a treaty with the _valkyrja_ ? They don’t exist, dude.”  
  
The king’s eyes crinkle, and Stan wonders if it’s because he used the elves’ proper name. It was an accident. Old habits from when they used to be friends.  
  
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve an audience with them in two days to negotiate terms.”  
  
They glare at each other. Stan swears Kyle’s eyes have gotten brighter. They’re more molten gold than amber, just _glowing_ in the low, flickering candlelight.    
  
The king breaks the stare and leans back, closing his notebook.  
  
“Why don’t you join me,” he suggests, twirling his quill, lips curling just so. “I could use a show of power to help me with negotiation.”  
  
“ _I’m_ a show of power?” Stan’s incredulous. He can’t be serious.  
  
“A soldier of The Kingdom at my right hand and not my throat?” Kyle leans forward. “That’s a hell of a show of power. We’ve been losing skirmishes for the past fifteen years and now we’re allies in a treaty negotiation? Can’t you see how that looks?”  
  
“Even if the _valkyrja_ are real, how do they give any shit about The Kingdom?”  
  
“I don’t know if they do,” The king taps the quill against his lips, frowning. “But, my point stands. They’re missing the third piece. It’ll throw them off their guard, and maybe we can hold on to some resources for it.”  
  
Stan frowns, mind rushing. There’s something he’s missing, too.

“What’s the third piece,” He asks.  
  
Kyle grins, sharp teeth and all.  
  
“That you’re a bargaining chip, not an ally.”

 

* * *

 

 

_614\. tua dán. East tower of the palace of the Dagda._

 

The musty, dank smell of the tower assaults Stan as soon as he opens the door. With each stair he climbs more dust and mold rise to assault him and the escort to his rear. More than once he has to stop and hack just to get a clean breath. The elvish guards seem both unaffected and unimpressed.   
  
Voices murmur from an open door at the top. He can pick out Kyle’s first -- that cutting timbre of a sharp tongue and sharper wit, the specific lilting way in which he speaks. The other voice is lower, more nasal. Stan meets its owner when he reaches the room.   
  
It’s a smaller elf, smaller than the King anyhow, but Stan wonders how much of that perception is due to Kyle’s intimidating presence. Unlike most elves, he’s got short, dark hair, much like Stan’s. A rounder face but a pointed chin. His lips catch on his teeth when he speaks.   
  
“You see, my lord,” The elf gestures to a contraption of metal rings and glass orbs in front of him. Kyle’s hand is on his chin, stroking the stubble there. “The improvement of the third concentric allows us to be much more precise with the transportation. This way --” He pauses to thumb a notch on one of the rings and shifts the arrangement. Light from the windows at the top of the chamber is reflected off the glass in the orbs, settling on a mug on the far side of the room. “We can interpret the subject as stationary. Watch as I move the subject to the opposite desk.”  
  
A charge fills the room as the elf raises his hands to cast; the hairs on the back of Stan’s neck stand on end.   
  
_Zzap!_ A bolt of energy looses from the tips of the small elf’s fingers. It refracts off the globes and rings and into the mug, which vanishes in a puff of foul-smelling smoke. The liquid contained within the mug drops from its former shape and soaks into the parchment below.   
  
The elf runs his hands through his short, coarse hair. “Shit. I forgot to account for the--”   
  
_Pop!_ The mug drops back into existence on top of the desk on the other side of the room.    
  
“It’s fantastic,” Kyle smiles, clapping the elf on the shoulder. “Excellent work, Kevin.”  
“Ah, uh, thank you my lord,” Kevin bows, sheepish. In turning, his eyes fall on Stan, and to the matter at hand. He glances back at the King. “I have drawn the runes already if you are ready to attend the concord?”  
  
Kyle glances at Stan. With laser precision he notes every single giveaway of the concern on Stan’s face.   
  
Stan hates when he does that.   
  
“Marshwalker, you ready?”   
  
He huffs, indignant. “As ever, my lord.”  
  
“Alright then,” Kyle claps his hands together. He glides over in front of the machine, in the center of the runes inscribed onto the floor in what looks like chalk. They don’t smear when the king’s robe drags across them so Stan assumes it must be magically affixed, or maybe some other material entirely. When it comes to magical implements, he doesn’t have two coins to rub together.  
  
He moves carefully over to stand beside Kyle. There’s just enough room for him to squeeze in the center, and Kevin begins adjusting the scope back to its original position. Some of the auxiliary contraptions in the room seem to also be important -- he spends a good minute tweaking one on the desk in the southern corner.    
  
The king barks some elvish, and the two guards at the door stand more at attention. They murmur an affirmative response but glance at each other before also moving inside the runes, just behind Stan and the King.   
  
Stan smirks. So it’s not just him.   
  
“O-okay, my lord, are we all in position?” Kevin stands ready, hands poised for casting.   
  
“Let’s go,”   
  
Stan glances over at the king and it hits him like a punch in the gut; the long dead affection rears its ugly head. They were _best-friends_ once, and Kyle’s looking at him with his glowing fucking eyes, like he already knows what Stan is thinking. The roar of the machine is like a windstorm; his stomach flips and flops. Every single hair on his body is on end.

The air crackles. Kyle grins. 

 

* * *

 

 

They _pop_ into existence and Stan throws himself to his knees away from the group. He vomits over the side of the cliff, the vertigo and the veiled threats and _Kyle_ is too much for him to keep his breakfast down. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, sits back on his heels. Stares down at the surf crashing into the rocks below as he tries to catch his breath.  
  
Kyle scoffs. “Get up dude, come on.” He moves up the rocky path without a second glance at Stan. His guards follow without question.  
  
Stan stands, brushes the snow off his knees. The air is biting cold, like daggers beneath his cloak. He huffs and wraps it closer. Hustles up the path, the final straggler on this treeless, frozen coast.  
  
At the top of the path is some kind of platform, seated on the cliff’s highest point. The pillars that support the structure reach upwards, cut from the same rock as under Stan’s feet, and end in a spherical dome. Geometric patterns etched into each surface become more evident and ornate as they get closer.

Stan’s hand falls on his sword as he also realizes they’re not alone.  
  
Six shadows loom inside the stone pavilion. Stan tries to reach out and stop Kyle but the elf king is unconcerned, and ignores the moment of protest from his _bargaining chip_. He strides confidently into the space.  
  
“Ah, ladies. How nice to see you on this fucking terrible day,” Kyle opens, arms wide in greeting.  
  
Stan drifts inside behind the guards, on high alert. Once inside the pavilion the wind is almost nonexistent, and he is thankful. His armor wasn’t built for this kind of climate.  
  
“Shove it, Kyle,” The foremost figure speaks. A woman, tall and buxom and blonde, decked out in heavy iron armor and thick furs. _Valkyrja._ She tilts her strong jaw towards the elf king indignantly, flexes her large, ivory wings. “Tell us what we want to know and we can all go home.”  
  
“Remind me again, will you?”  
  
The _valkyrja_ to her right unrolls a piece of parchment. She’s in the same armor as the them all, but her hair is short and black, the bobbed ends curl forward into her cheeks. _She’s got a cute nose_ , Stan thinks, as she begins to read out the decree.  
  
“ _Tuatha_ _dánnan_ will report on their custody of the living lands as per Her Majesty Bebe’s decree, such that they will not withhold nor omit information deemed important to her majesty, nor will they deflect, specifically concerning the matter upon which the majesties have previously discussed, on the penalty of punishment by removal of certain lands under the purview of her majesty…” Her voice is strong and rich and Stan _knows_ that face-- that face--  
  
“ _Wendy_?” He balks, incredulous. He steps forward without thought and stands in front of the king.  
  
Three of the _valkyrja_ move forward with impossible speed. Their javelins, the ends heated by some unknown magic, prod his chestplate. Kyle’s guards clamp their hands around his wrists from behind with iron grips. Burning leather fills his nose.  
  
Her violet eyes find his over the weapons. “...Stan?”  
  
Stan ignores the threats, the weapons, the steely eyed glare from the _valkyrja_ queen.  
  
“What the _fuck_ are you doing here? Wendy?” He remembers how slick her blood felt against his hands, the way her eyes glassed over as he held her to her end. The smell of dirt and blood and war that still haunts his dreams a decade later. “I watched you _die_ , I watched you--”  
  
The queen bristles. “ _Dagda_ , your henchman oversteps,” she hisses.    
  
Kyle snaps at the guards in elvish, and they attempt to wrestle Stan’s body back into some kind of respectful standing. He resists, larger overall than each elf, and desperate for some kind of answer.  
  
Wendy’s eyes soften as she looks him over. She sighs, closing the parchment. “Stanley, please. I am _valkyrja_ now. Our time has passed. You need to understand that.”    
  
_Our time has passed._ It’s like being dropped from a great height.  
  
At the bottom, his heart shatters again, like the ice against the sea or the waves that shake this cliff, the rocks at the bottom battered to oblivion, until they are nothing more than sand and a memory. He is nothing. He is in the past.    
  
“Get him out of here, _now._ ” Kyle barks, and this time, Stan goes.  
  
“A soldier of The Kingdom?” The queen muses as he’s led past. It’s clearly directed at the elf king, and not Stan.  
  
“An ally,” Kyle responds. Stan can hear the frown in his voice.

* * *

 

  
For the length of the meeting, Stan tucks into the cliff, just below the pavilion’s bottom stair. He fits perfectly into the rock face, shields himself from the worst of the wind with his cloak, and ceases all movement. Grief-fueled tears freeze on his face and in his beard and he tucks himself further into his cloak, pushes his helmet as far down as it can go.  
  
He sits there for an eternity. He wishes to, for all it matters. So that his body may become just as numb as the empty void in his chest. His eyes fall upon the cliff’s edge and lose focus. He entertains the idea of how the sea might feel on his face. How it would speed him into nothingness.    
  
Eventually, the talks end. The elvish guard emerge from the stone pavilion. The king’s boots carry a particular clack, and they stop on the step just over his right shoulder.  
  
Stan can barely feel his body. He wants to tell the king to _leave him, just leave him here_ , but his voice won’t work.    
  
“Stan,” Kyle says. Stan looks up and knows immediately that it was a mistake. Kyle’s eyes are too soft for a king, _too_ _soft_ and Stan can’t stand it.  
  
He rises, slow and careful. He goes through the motions apart from himself: bows his head to the monarch, extends an arm towards the teleportation platform. Does not make the mistake of meeting the king’s eyes.

“Lead the way, my lord,” he says, and they depart.  

 

* * *

_614\. Northwestern Zaron. The Kingdom._

 

The wizard bites his lip. With one hand he bites into a freshly roasted turkey leg, the other flips through the large stack of parchments on his desk. His fingers leave fresh greasy handprints along a multitude of older ones from previous perusals of his paperwork.

He does not find what he’s looking for in the first stack. He searches through another, and another; frustration makes him discard the leg back onto his dirty plate. A final stack and he roars -- casts the parchments about, scatters them off the desk and all over the floor.

 _Nothing. How can there be nothing? The equinox approaches and there’s still nothing?!_ _  
_ _  
_ “Feldspar!” He bellows, at nothing. He has half a mind to flip over the desk itself. “ _Feldspa-ar_ , bring me some news! _Damnit_ !”

Behind him, the chamber door creaks open. He freezes.

Knight-Captain Donovan pokes his head into the room. “Feldspar is on a mission milord,” he says. “He can’t hear you.”  
  
“I know that, _Clyde_ ,” The Grand Wizard spits back, rolls his eyes. “Get me a raven, godsdamnit.”  
  
“Right away, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for co-opting some poor welsh for the elves


End file.
